Les Amitiés Particulières
by elliemorris
Summary: If Alexandre Motier hadn't committed suicide, then maybe his summer could have been the best by far. Fanfic for the film Les Amitiés Particulières/This Special Friendship. Georges De Sarre x Alexandre Motier
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This fanfic is all over the place, I apologise... *cries* Also, I'm not sure if I portrayed the characters correctly, for I haven't read the book yet as I can only find it in French. The title is the title of the book and film, because I'm so creative. I made this because I thought the characters deserved a happy ending, as the end of the film was so sad.

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Fingers trembling, shuddering breath caught in his throat, and tawny eyes cast firmly on the outside world, Alexandre huddled himself into his father's battered car and attempted for perhaps the first time, a false smile. He knew he had to be the luckiest boy alive, but he just didn't feel like it. Just five days ago could have been on the brink of breaking down if it weren't for the letter in his pocket. Just five days ago he thought of suicide, the greatest sin of all… He didn't fit into society as everybody wished he could, and he knew it so well.

'Are you sure you really know this boy, Alexandre?' His father, the physician, asked concernedly. 'I was under the impression that elder boys had to keep out of the youngsters' ways. Is that not so?'

'Of course not, father,' he said, crossing his fingers behind his back. 'Where on earth did you hear that?'

'Oh never mind that, son. Just the way things were at the time I attended school… Times change.'

Alexandre's faux smile brightened at his convincing dishonesty. His father had always been easy to fool, so easy in fact, that it very nearly made Alexandre feel sorry for him. Alexandre's lies were getting bigger and bigger each day.

'Yes, I suppose they do.'

Two hours of silence had settled between the two, giving the boy time to read his letter over and over again. Each time, his cheeks flushed with delight at those sweet, calming words. In that painful hour where he knew he couldn't bear to live, the discovery of that letter had given him a boost of euphoria like he had never felt before. Reading it now was like being gently lulled to sleep, a soft light in a long period of darkness. The boy never knew somebody that could be so enigmatic; to make him feel loved, hated, beautiful, and worthless, all at the same time. He felt dizzy just trying to fathom whether he was worth Georges' time.

Another hour and a half passed with Alexandre's face pressed against the glass of the old Hotchkiss 1922, the endless fields of lavender and French countryside slowly passing by his window. Shadows rose then fell as the sun slid behind the sea. A bat swooping down from a nearby holm oak caught his attention, but only for a second, as his eyes were back down on his letter to reassure him this wasn't a dream after all.

When the Hotchkiss rumbled onto the gravel of the château's grand driveway, Alexandre's eyes flew open in surprise. Darkness was now a navy blanket in the night's sky, and the warm yellow shapes of the château's crystal windows were the only source of light. Two vague shadows towered in the doorway, one arm stretching out in a friendly greeting.

'Aristocrats of all people,' his father grumbled under his breath, but was ignored as Alexandre had already gathered his bags from the passenger seat and escaped from the vehicle.

A boyish grin spread across Alexandre's features as he slammed the car door shut and raced his way over to the porch. Even that insult to his friend couldn't hurt him now, as he was already clinging to Georges in the first embrace they had shared since the end of term. Carefully he looked up to meet Georges' eye and beamed, who in turn grinned back. One cold hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to flinch a little.

'I am so glad you have made it,' an elegantly-dressed lady said, her tight-lipped smile appearing forced. 'Welcome to our home. I am Georges' mother,' at her final words she smiled admirably at her son, then turned frigidly back to Alexandre.

'Thank you, Madame De Sarre,' Alexandre chirruped, trying his best to appear cheerful, even at eleven o'clock at night. It had taken a long time to arrive at Georges' residence (an even longer time than originally planned, as they kept getting lost for hours at a time) and his head was still whirling with travel sickness.

When Madame De Sarre turned to leave, Georges' eyes glistened with excitement. He pulled the youngest boy closer, letting his hands slide down to his waist. Now that his mother was gone, he tugged the crisp shirt that Alexandre had neatly tucked into his short waistband out, did the same to himself, loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the first few buttons of his designer shirt.

'I told you we'd meet this summer. I told you!' he said when he had finished, taking Alexandre's hand and leading him to the first living room he could find. 'I'm so happy you're here. Truly I am.'

Alexandre squeezed his hand as he was pushed into a chair opposite the fireplace. 'I missed you.'

'But it's only been a week, Alexandre,' Georges laughed, but his voice broke slightly and the laugh sounded tense. 'I missed you, too,' he added, noticing his friend's worried expression.

'Just think, a week without those nosey priests,' the youngest joked, 'a week without confession or punishment, nor terrible food and bedtimes at nine o'clock. We can do whatever we please, whenever we please. No secrets, and no interruptions from anybody.'

Despite the serene manner he spoke, by the look on his face, the boy was still mulling over his months at school; Georges could tell by the way his chocolate orbs darkened, and the ever so slight change in atmosphere.

'That is all smashing, but are you not forgetting something, Alexandre?'

'What is that?'

'What is the date today?'

'The 16th July?' He answered, brows furrowing a little before the recollection hit him. 'Ah, yes! Happy birthday!'

Alexandre leapt from his seat to perch on the arm of Georges' chair. Gently gathering both Georges' hands in his own, he squeezed, then averted his eyes regretfully.

A smirk curved the eldest boy's lips. 'And what did you get me for my birthday?'

'Nothing. Nothing at all.'

'But that's just what I asked of you, don't you remember?' Georges said with a grin. '"Alexandre gave him nothing."'

'That is terrible though… It feels wrong. I wish I could have gotten you something.'

'There is something I want for my birthday, though,' he said, caressing Alexandre's small hands in his own. 'Something from you.'

'I'll give you anything, Georges,' he said solemnly.

'A kiss.'

The youngest boy leaned over to peck Georges on the cheek, but was refused. Pouting slightly, he asked whether he was being teased. With his hands still grasping Alexandre's within his own, the aristocrat placed his mouth against the rose pink of the boy's softer, voluptuous lips and let them brush across, gaining a little gasp of surprise. Scarlet dusted his cheeks, just like the first time they kissed in the greenhouse, yet Alexandre closed his eyes and let his friend press his lips on his own again and again.

'Happy birthday, Georges,' Alexandre beamed when they had broken apart, 'I really love you.'

'And I love you, too,' he replied, brushing the stray hairs away from his face.

Alexandre pushed the subject further, 'We will always be together, won't we?'

It seemed like more of a statement than a question to Georges, so naturally, he agreed. The last time he hurt Motier's feelings was when he mentioned Lucien was his friend… It had taken a seemingly expensive bottle of lavender water and a poem to win him over, and Alexandre was back to blowing kisses from across the dining hall and passing romantic letters again.

'Georges?'

'Yes.'

'Do you think I'll go to Hell?'

Georges studied him seriously, a slight frown on his face. 'Gracious, I think not. Who on earth planted that idea into your head?' He knew the answer already and regretted asking. Father Lauzon.

'The man I confessed to… He said Satan wants me. I am becoming a rebel, and there is no saving my soul.' The last sentence he said was spoken with a sheepish grin, yet there was no mistaking the tremor in his voice. 'I don't want to go to Hell.'

'You are not going to Hell,' Georges said sternly. 'Alexandre Motier is the purest boy I know — sure to go to Heaven.'

'Do you really think so?' Alexandre enquired excitedly, his hands gripping the arm of the chair.

'Of course I do. Now, no more morbid talk, we get enough of that at school...' He shook his head, certain he would never set foot in Saint Claude again, even if it would save his own soul.

It was at that moment that a maid bustled in, struggling with Alexandre's trunk and a heap of fresh linen almost as big as her. Both boys flinched although they had been caught doing something wrong, but the maid paid them no attention and simply told them it was time to retire for the night, Madame De Sarre's orders. Reluctantly, Alexandre paused, smiled sadly in Georges' direction, then dragged himself to his guest bedroom where the servant made his bed. Despite the irritation of being interrupted, Motier was bubbling with happiness. This was going to be the best summer by far.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I actually managed to get my hands on the book! (although I did have to pay an arm and a leg for it, and sell my soul at some point also, it was so worth it!) I hope this chapter is a little more in character.

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Young Motier poked his head around the guest bedroom door. Disorientation forced his features into an uneasy smile. He had no idea where all the other occupants of this household were residing… Not to mention, where Georges was. This house was big. Big enough to get lost in. His own home was large, by all means, but this chateau was something else altogether! Never before had he been somewhere so posh and refined. There was this one time he visited Versailles with his family in the summer, two years ago, but even then he wasn't sure it could possibly be as regal as Georges' house. Nothing could beat Georges' home, Alexandre decided there and then.

Fingering the door frame, and feeling a little overwhelmed, Alexandre cast his eyes over to the far end of the corridor; a flash of white fur shot out from an adjacent door way. Shuffling his feet into slippers, he made his way over to the Persian cat and scooped her up into his arms. There, they would be lost and confused together. With the reluctant cat held hostage in his cradled arms, the perplexed boy ambled down the red-carpeted hallway big enough to house a family of five, his wide eyes scanning the room for any sign of life. Portraits of long-forgotten De Sarre aristocrats lined the walls with watchful eyes. His face broke into a broad grin as a familiar, yet sleepy face peeked around the door and met his gaze.

'Good morning,' Georges said, very formally, yet even he couldn't keep his face straight to mask the joy he was feeling. 'This is the earliest time I've ever seen you.'

Alexandre checked his wrist watch. 'Seven-thirty,' he beamed, 'Another memory for us to share.'

Georges gave Alexandre a full-body scan. He blushed all over when he realised he was wearing the rose-coloured pyjamas he had kissed in a stolen moment in Alexandre's dormitory. Instead, he focused on the disheveled golden blonde locks, and brushed them into place, no matter how cute he initially thought it made Alexandre look. It would make his mother irritable to see a hair out of place — especially on another boy.

'Before we get dressed, I have somewhere to show you,' Georges said, linking his hand with his friend's. Now they were perfectly alone (save for the cat) he had no reason to hide the affection he felt for the youngster. It was blissfully open and honest, a quality Georges felt he had lost at Saint Claude.

Pausing, he added: 'In fact, I have many things to show you, before we leave for the seaside.'

His friend could barely suppress his happiness at the idea. It was very exciting for Alexandre to stay at Georges' home for the summer, and he wanted to see everything there was to see, and do everything there was to do. Typically he'd be spending his dog days cooped up in a bedroom along with Maurice, his elder brother, who made it obvious he wasn't exactly desired there (he'd much rather be off doing the unmentionable with his mother's silly chambermaid, and Alexandre just got in his way). Either that, or deliberately forgetting about the list of wholesome activities to do in the summer, handed to him by the Rector from Saint Claude — all at the same time as desperately dodging Father Lauzon's attempts at "saving him from the Devil".

The eldest boy cheerfully led his companion to the award-winning garden, smiling happily to himself at the memories of Easter, where he imagined a pyjama-clad Alexandre playing in his garden. His flight of imagination would become a reality, he was sure of it. In his fantasies, Alexandre had been many things; the Pope, a young Roman soldier, a nymph, but this Easter memory was his favourite of all.

Alexandre opened his eyes. He was in the most beautiful garden he'd ever visited in his life. Almost every flower he could think of was there, giving off a delicate aroma and jewelling the striped velvet lawn with clusters of exotic, traditional, rare, and common flora. His favourite of all flowers were the white lilies by the greenhouse.

Almost although reading his mind, Georges strode over to the lily bed and plucked three of the largest, finest lilies. As he handed the posy to Alexandre, he said: 'These flowers have always reminded me of you, you see. I asked mother to get the gardener to plant some, and so I dedicated them to you.'

'Thank you,' Alexandre said, blushing bright red. 'Your garden is simply wonderful.'

Placing a gentle hand on his guest's shoulder, Georges brought him to the place he spent many lonely days at home fantasising of, the Baroque water fountain. Soft pattering noises were made as the purified water jetted into the main basin, surrounded by little cherubs and bewitching women from long ago, all wearing ethereal garments spun of stone. Whilst clasping his lilies to his chest, Alexandre rolled his pyjama pants up to his mid-thigh and carefully stepped into the first ring of the fountain. Childishly, he willed for Georges to join him, and began to splash him with chilled spray, giggling although he were five years old again. First Georges' expression was one of complete surprise — how did this work out exactly as he imagined? — but it quickly grew to one of competitive, frivolous glee.

Before they knew it, the family butler was making his way towards them, his strides brisk and stealthy.

'Master Georges, your parents have requested that you and your young friend get dressed, for breakfast is in fifteen minutes. I trust you have already packed your bags for today's trip?'

'Yes, Edgar,' a stunned Georges replied hastily, his cheeks flushing a rosy pink with embarrassment.

Besides him, Alexandre's expression was as serious as a Philosophy professor's, just as it had been that time in March where he had to explain himself to his confessor. He didn't look ashamed in the slightest, in fact, he looked disappointed that the butler had to spoil their fun.

'Could you tell them we'll be there shortly? I just have to show Alexandre something quickly,' Georges said, the colour in his face fading to it's typical lacklustre complexion.

'As you wish, sir,' the butler responded, bowing slightly and taking his leave.

When he was gone, Georges breathed a sigh of relief. 'And I thought we were perfectly alone!'

'That butler is as sneaky as Father Lauzon,' Alexandre agreed, pursing his lips. 'What is the other thing you want to show me? Is it more flowers?'

'No, not flowers. It's an item in my father's collection, dating from around the Roman era.'

'You have a keen interest in history, Georges,' Alexandre commented. 'Are you sure I should be on familiar terms with such an intellectual?'

The eldest turned to look at him with such amusement in his eyes, that Alexandre himself burst into a laugh. After drying themselves off and dressing with haste, Georges in his blue shirt that was Alexandre's favourite, and Alexandre dressed in short pants and a navy blue sailor shirt under Georges' instruction; both of them sporting the red cravats that had brought them together in the first place. Side by side, they admired themselves, and each other, in the Baroque mirror in Georges' bedroom.

Through the mirror's reflection, Alexandre watched as Georges stretched out his hand to his and entwined their fingers. Their eyes met, and both mouths stretched into a knowing smile as the eldest boy's hand travelled down to touch the youngest boy's bare legs. He gave Alexandre's slender, sun-kissed legs a soft pinch before placing both hands on his shoulders and pushing him to the front. Naturally, Alexandre closed his eyes, for he knew without a doubt that Georges would tell him to close them. The youngest was led, once again, to the family study where Georges' most coveted possession was kept.

On the way to the study (which took quite a few minutes to get to, as it was on the other side of the chateau to Georges' bedroom), Georges had time to become nervous about his decision to show Alexandre his father's coin. What if Alexandre laughed? What if he thought he was strange or creepy, to be so obsessed with Alexandre that he would become enamoured with such a thing? Georges knew he would devote himself to collecting all kinds of items that reminded him of Alexandre; once he left home, of course. He also knew that he would bankrupt himself in the process, and would be absolutely happy to just as long as he was surrounded with reminders of this enchanting child.

When they both had their faces close to the glass, Georges explained himself:

'The boy on this coin was so beautiful, that it reminded me of you. He kind of reassembles you, don't you see?'

'Oh, yes,' a flattered Alexandre blushingly replied, gazing intently at the piece of bronze.

'When it was the holidays and I couldn't see you, I would visit this coin. Unfortunately, it's all the way over in the study… I'd really like it in my bedroom, so I can see it all the time, but father would think it strange of me to ask him to move it into there.'

'I suppose he would. But it truly is a wonderful collector's item,' Alexandre said. 'Did you sa—'

'Georges, Alexandre?' Came the butler's voice from outside the door. 'Your parents are fearing you've forgotten to eat breakfast, and they request that you come down immediately.'

Georges dropped Alexandre's hand although it were scalding hot. 'Coming,' he answered, wondering how on earth Edgar knew they were in the study. He didn't like the stern tone of the butler's voice, for it told him he would be in trouble for being late.

Usually his parents weren't so strict (sometimes verging on doting), but whenever there was a guest to the family — even a young guest — they would clamp down on discipline with an iron fist. Apparently it was what caring parents did, but Georges would rather be left to his own routine and rituals.

Of course, when they arrived to the dining hall, both their eyes filled with guilt, and Georges' mouth ready to launch into a convincing excuse, the parents simply told them to hurry up, for their food was going cold. Inwardly, they both sighed of relief; they weren't suspected of any wrong doing. Georges knew it was paranoid, but recently he came to fear that his parents knew about his relationship with Alexandre. He was usually the most careful and organised man on the planet, but one time he was going to write to Alexandre, he had left his previous correspondent's letter out in order to answer it. Whilst nipping onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air, he came back to find his letters scattered wildly on the floor. His rational mind told him he had left the window open, and that there must have been a particularly strong gust of wind whilst he was gone. The other part of his mind, however, suggested that either one of his parents, or one of the servants, had been into his room and read his most private and precious letters. They had been acting rather cold towards Alexandre recently…

Daring to lift his eyes from his hot chocolate and grapefruit, he cast his gaze on his mother, who was simply gazing out the windows. His father was watching alongside her, drumming his fingers against the tabletop and humming impatiently when a servant accidentally dropped one of his wife's hat boxes onto the gravel. Yes, he decided he was definitely being paranoid. It was hard to maintain and nourish such a friendship, when it had to be a secret friendship full of rendezvous and stolen kisses.

After they had wolfed down their meals, the two boys told Monsieur and Madame De Sarre that they were ready to depart for the Basque Coast. Luckily, they had changed the destination once again, from the Pyrenees to the Basque coast, for there were no rooms available there. Georges found it quite fortunate, because he knew Lucien and his special friend André were staying at Pyrenees. He liked Lucien a lot, he really did, but he knew Lucien would rather spend all his time alone with André, without having to worry about leaving Georges out. On the other hand, he also wanted to spend as much time as he could with his own particular friend.


	3. Chapter 3

The Basque Coast was by all means beautiful to Georges, yet the place he really dreamt of, the location where many a reverie would take place, was Greece. Greece would be the perfect backdrop for Alexandre Motier, where he could envision the boy clothed in fine traditional robes of the purest cotton, a crown of vines sat atop his head as the smoldering sunshine played with his golden tresses and highlighted tawny eyes. As Father De Trennes once said, Greece was perfection; where the sea met the sky in genuine harmony.

After getting to their luxury hotel on par with the Ritz, checking in, and unpacking, the boys decided that they would visit the beach right away for the weather was at its hottest all summer. It was so sultry that on the long drive down to the seaside resort, both boys watched as the road ahead appeared to ripple behind a shimmery mirage. Whenever they got within a few metres of what appeared to be a watery surface, the mirage effect vanished beneath the car completely. Sweat beaded on Alexandre's forehead as soon as he stepped out into the sweltering summer sunshine, and it was he who suggested they visit the beach. As they had only just arrived an hour ago, the De Sarre parents had to decline the offer, for they had to introduce themselves to the other ladies and gentlemen in the resort club, otherwise they would be seen for the next week as antisocial and introverted. Yet after thinking about it, allowed the two boys to set off alone, just as long as Georges was in charge of the duo. Naturally, the boys were thrilled.

In the room that the two shared, they both stripped off their sober, solemn apparel and emerged from the hotel lobby sporting swimming trunks; Georges' red with embroidered initials, Alexandre's navy blue and cut off mid-thigh. Memories of the stream that Saint Claude often visited was fresh in both minds. The flush on Alexandre's cheeks at the sight of Georges watching him from afar was endearing, and the sparkle of daylight on the golden crucifix around his slender neck made his heart skip a beat. Despite being close, Georges and Alexandre often stayed apart on the days where the school would go to bathe in the pure waters. Apart from the day where Alexandre tossed a flower over his shoulder to his peer on the way back to school (talking to him directly would be too risky), they had never bathed together in the stream nor the sea, and the impish grin on Alexandre's face was enough for the eldest boy to know he had been looking forward to it all summer.

Wading eagerly into the aquamarine waters, the two splashed about and frolicked into the sea as far as they dared to go. Not too far out to sea, and not too close to the shore either. The spot of sea that they had chosen was warmed directly from the sun and fell up to about the middle of Georges' chest. Surprisingly, not many people were about on the fine day to enjoy the private beach, so in total there were only about fifteen people there, including Georges and Alexandre. Georges knew where they were hiding alright. They were in the ladies and gentleman's club, smoking, playing snooker, socialising, flirting, and listening to the swing music that was so popular this summer with the De Sarres.

'Do you remember when I asked you if we could exchange swimming trunks this summer?' Alexandre said out of the blue, causing Georges to start and give him his complete attention.

'Yes,' he answered, sounding cautious. 'Do you still want to do that?' There was a slight tremor in his voice that he wished he had disguised better.

Alexandre smiled innocently and reached out to touch Georges' arm, 'No. Not today.'

The eldest boy relaxed visibly. 'Ah, very well.'

Instead of splashing each other and playing like they planned, the youngest continued to gaze at Georges with a sentimental look across his face. Carefully he paddled closer to his friend until they were less than a couple of feet away. Wrapping his arms amorously around his neck, Alexandre waded closer still until they were chest to chest. Georges could feel his heart drumming fast just next to his own, and swung his arm around his waist. Closing his eyes, the youngest boy placed a single kiss onto Georges' cheek, lingering slightly to smell the sea salt and sea breeze that clung to his skin, and feel the warmth of the sun on his companion's face. Pulling away and fluttering his eyes open, a smile that wouldn't look amiss on an angel graced his features, before turning to an expression of coyness as Georges kissed him in return.

Together they surfaced from the body of water and stepped out onto the golden sand. By now, most of the couples on the beach had gone inside for their luncheon, yet the boys would rather not take any chances. Deciding on a desolate corner of the resort hidden by several palms, rocks and small pools of sea life to hide them from the prying eye, the two sat down in the sand together on top of their towels. As the sun blazed down on their bodies, they sat in reserved, peaceful silence, listening to the seagulls cry overhead, and the faint music in the background.

All of a sudden, Alexandre rose from his spot and came to sit in the space between Georges' legs, resting his back against his friend's torso; he cast his brown eyes up at him, as if to ask 'is this alright?'. Although it was a surprise (yet not an unpleasant one at that) Georges didn't even flinch. Instead he grinned and let Alexandre relax against his body. Alexandre leaned his head against his friend's shoulder, and closed his eyes happily as Georges began to trace small circles on his own shoulders. The circles grew bigger and bigger, then fell to his chest where they changed into something that felt like a heart shape to the boy. A soft sigh escaped his lips as the eldest boy's fingers tested his whole chest, stroking the more sensitive areas and holding his palm against him to feel his rapid heartbeat. The pads of his fingers fell down to Alexandre's stomach where they tickled gently, causing a hoot of laughter to burst from him. He knew he shouldn't, but with flaming cheeks that fortunately Georges couldn't see, Alexandre dared the teasing fingers to go lower and lower. To make this a little more obvious, he cocked his head slightly more to the left in order to place a smooth kiss on Georges' neck, and brazenly spread his legs a little, capturing Georges' exploring hand in his own and lowering it.

Georges froze. He had limits, and he stuck to them. Still, he smirked at the boy's boldness, and calmly withdrew his hand, shaking his head at the look in Alexandre's eyes. The boy was pre-pubescent, and Georges himself was only fourteen (yet appeared a lot older — maybe seventeen — to many others). Regardless, he recognised that it would be wrong to touch somebody like that when they were both so young and inexperienced.

Ignoring that Alexandre appeared pouty, he said, 'Why don't we take some photographs with my Kodak? It's in the hotel room, so I could run and get it now so we'll have memories of this first day we spent together.'

Slightly put out, Alexandre answered with a brief, sullen, 'why not?'

He hugged his knees to his chest and waited patiently for Georges to come back. Five minutes later, he returned, Kodak camera in hand. The chunky black metal contraption had a fair weight to it, and had leather billows forming a tight seal between lens and film. Brightened by the nickel plated parts of the camera glinting harshly in the sunshine, the Kodak appeared wildly new and advanced to Alexandre. He hoped his friend wouldn't ask him to take photos with it, for he had never operated a camera before, especially one as modern and state-of-the-art as this one!

Thankfully, he simply was directed to sit as still and as naturally as possible, watching the waves in the distance as he had his picture taken. Next, he was told to hug his knees to his chest and smile towards the camera. After the second, third, and forth photograph was snapped up, he was told to lie against the towel although he were sunbathing. A broad grin spread across his face as this shot was taken, immortalising his cheerful features in grainy black and white.

Georges promised himself that he would purchase a photo album as soon as he got home, and vowed that he would fill it to the brim with a collection of Alexandre Motier's angel face and seraphic smile.

He rose his head from the towel, noticing that somebody new was entering the beach. Quickly, he shot up like a jack-in-the-box, and pointed the man out to Georges.

'Somebody's coming,' he whispered quietly, appearing apprehensive. 'You should stop taking photos of me, it may arouse his suspicions…'

The man walked past with his beach towel under his arm, and paused when he noticed that Georges held a camera.

'Oh, you have a Kodak?' he said, surprised. 'They're rather great for taking photos of the family, aren't they? Would you like me to take a picture of you and your brother?'

He didn't seem to suspect the two of anything unsavoury or peculiar in the slightest, and appeared happy to help. By the sounds of it, he was an English tourist to the Basque Coast, as his accent had a strong British clang to it.

'Oh, yes. Why, thank you,' Georges said, the sinking feeling in his stomach vanishing.

He stood closer to his friend — as close as he would dare — and rested an amiable hand on his shoulder. The two beamed into the camera and the photo was taken.


End file.
